


Let Go

by ordinarily (tofty)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spanking, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's better than a spa retreat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round two of the blindfold kink meme. Features spanking and mild watersports.

Sam’s having one of those dreams you have when you’re not quite sleeping, when you’re aware of where you are (shotgun in the Impala, on some wide-open stretch of road in Minnesota) but you slip sideways into another world anyway for a few seconds or minutes.

The world Sam slips into is populated by dogs, not hellhounds, just dogs, but their faces and bodies are badly chewed-up, exposed bone and muscle, teeth bared and hungry and coming for him, and he jerks fully awake, sweaty after just a minute or two under. He needs the sleep badly, hasn’t had more than two hours’ sleep a night all week, but can’t make himself close his eyes again. He presses the pads of his hands into his closed eyes until he sees flashes of light swimming behind his eyelids, and sits back for the last hour of the drive, the two of them sitting silent under the tinny beat of the radio. Sam’s hands are fists in his lap, and he can’t unclench them. He stares at his fingernails, bitten down to the quick, scabby and hangnailed.

It’s not until their bags are in the room that Sam even realizes that Dean’s noticed his mini-nightmare, or the freakout that followed it. But when he heads for the bathroom, intending to take a piss and wash up before they head out for dinner, Dean says, in a low voice, “Sam, don’t go yet. Come here to me,” and Sam knows without a doubt that he has. Sam knows that voice, by now, and he changes his course, heart pounding, to stand in front of Dean, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed. “Get undressed,” Dean says, in that same low, steady voice. He’s not standing up, not yet, but he’s unbuckling his belt.

“Dean, you don’t—“

“Sam.” Dean’s eyes don’t leave Sam’s as he pulls his belt from the loops of his jeans. “Do it now.” Sam shivers and pulls his shirts over his head, while Dean reaches up and unbuttons his jeans, the leather of the belt he’s still holding brushing Sam’s abdomen, and Sam gasps from underneath his layers as he untangles himself, tosses the shirts on the floor, and shucks the jeans, staggering a little in his haste.

When he straightens up, naked, Dean’s standing in front of him. He’s still dressed, right down to the leather jacket. “Kneel at the side of the bed and lean over it.”

“Dean—“

“Sam, why are you fighting this? You always fight it. And you know you – just do it, okay? Side of the bed, on your knees.”

Sam does it. The carpeting is threadbare against his knees and offers no real softness; when this is over, he’ll be lucky if he can stand. He cock starts to fill, bumping gently against the side of the bed. He leans over, rests his forehead against his arms where they’re folded on the bed, and breathes deeply as Dean smoothes a hand gently over his ass. Sam feels a little of the tension seep out of his shoulders.

He’s so unprepared for the first crack of the belt that he doesn’t even hear it whooshing through the air at him; the first inkling he has is the searing pain on his ass, so sharp and unexpected and needed that his back bows under the burn of it. Dean’s hand is on him again, soothing. “Easy,” Dean says quietly. “Easy.”

Sam pushes his hot face back into the bed, gasping, and waits for the next blow. Dean’s so perfect at this, varying the strokes, their speed and intensity, even their direction, and Sam never knows what’s coming or when and so he can’t quite prepare himself for it, can’t quite get a handle on it, and it’s all Sam can do to stay balanced against his forearms. Each smack, against his thighs or his ass or the small of his back, brings him deliriously closer, his cock hardens unbearably, for who knows how long, minutes or hours, with the only sounds in the room the crack of the belt and his own moans, and when he comes, long pumps into the bedspread, dripping onto the floor, he hopes Dean won’t notice because he doesn’t want it to end yet.

Dean does notice, though; Dean almost always notices. And then his hands are there, helping Sam to stand, to kneel up on the bed. Dean tosses the belt to one side – Sam hears it hit the floor with a tiny flare of disappointment – and pushes up behind Sam, one hand heavy on his abdomen and the other massaging his balls softly, even that small pressure a little too much for him. Sam hisses.

“Want me to stop?”

Sam shakes his head. It’s too much, and that’s exactly right.

Dean presses in closer. He’s still fully dressed, and the fabrics, denim and leather and cotton jersey, scrape against Sam’s skin. It feels like most of Sam’s nerve endings are right on the surface of his skin, and every small touch is sending him into sensory overload.

“Sam, you’re red and raw from your waist to halfway down your thighs. It’s gonna hurt if I fuck you.”

Sam breathes. His thighs are shaking.

“If you want it, you’re gonna have to say it.”

“I want it.”

Dean’s hands slide around to his back, fingernails scrabbling lightly against his skin, making Sam arch and twist.

Dean opens him up slowly, taking his time before he sinks in, opening Sam around him with a slick slide of lube. Sam cants himself back into Dean, wants him as deep as he can go, and Dean obliges, sinking all the way in. Sam can feel Dean’s balls against him, the zipper of his jeans scraping at his ass.

He doesn’t move, though, and so Sam does the moving, wants this, wants this, rocking harder, Dean’s fingernails still scratching, so goddamned good, and with each deep stroke he’s a little looser, a little more open, a little lower on the bed until he’s on his elbows, still rocking. His dick’s not quite hard again, but he doesn’t necessarily even want it to be, just wants to stay like this, unfolded around Dean as Dean fucks him, dean’s fingertips burning wherever they touch him.. His eyes are closed. He can feel himself smiling, mouth open, breathing deep and uneven.

“Hey, Sammy, you awake down there?” Dean sounds calm, still, but Sam knows he’s making an effort to keep his voice steady. His fingers are tightened on Sam’s hips. His hips are stuttering into Sam’s, and he’s taking the wheel, now, harder, faster, more.

Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, asshole, still awake.”

“Dude.” Dean’s laughing too. “Who exactly is the asshole, here?” He smacks at Sam’s ass, hard, and Sam jerks back up onto his hands, leans back for another smack, which Dean obligingly delivers.

Dean leans forward until his lips are at the back of Sam’s neck, fucking harder into Sam. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready to let go? You can let go now.” Dean’s teeth against his spine, and Sam moans. He’s ready, been ready since they started, and he stops moving altogether as Dean’s arm comes back around him to squeeze his dick, and Sam lets go, steady stream of piss against the bed, Dean directing the flow over their hands, cupping it in his palms, spreading it over Sam’s torso and fucking faster and faster until they’re both done, sated and sore and propped together for support like a house of cards.

Sam’ll definitely have to shower before he sleeps, shower and then possibly salve, but he’ll sleep, curled unfettered into Dean, through dinner, through the night, until morning.


End file.
